


tell me: we both matter, don't we? (see how deep the bullet lies.)

by amorremanet



Series: is there so much hate for the ones we love? [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Scott McCall, Alternate Canon, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Autistic Character, Autistic Scott McCall, Autistic Scott is my story and I'm sticking to it regardless of context, Beta Derek Hale, Birthday Sex, Bottom Scott McCall, Caretaking, Character Study, Community: stop_drop_howl, Concerned Derek Hale, Consensual Underage Sex, Consent Issues, Critical Self Care Failure, Darkness Around The Heart, Depression, Derek Hale Is A Secret Bookworm, Derek Hale Is Bad At Words, Derek Hale Makes Bad Life Choices, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Derek Has Issues, Derek is Derek, Derek is a Failwolf, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Roller Coaster, Emotionally Compromised, Gentleness, Hurt Derek Hale, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Scott McCall, I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY FOR MYSELF, I can feel feelings now and they hurt, I'm Going to Hell, Jealous Derek, Jealousy, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Mutual Hurt/Comfort, POV Derek Hale, Past Underage Sex, Porn with Feelings, Scott Has Issues, Scott McCall Is Bad At Feelings, Scott McCall Makes Bad Life Choices, Slight underage, Someone Please Help Derek Hale, Someone Please Help Scott McCall, Suicidal Scott McCall, Suicidal Thoughts, Trust Issues, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Uninformed Consent, Universe Alteration, Werewolf Senses, Worry, and it doesn't mean that they're loving each other in the best ways, but you try telling them that and see how it goes for you, neuroatypical character, on both of their parts tbh, seriously: just because they love each other doesn't mean they're healthy, someone please keep these two separated for their own good, tbh Derek and Scott really need therapy more than sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:51:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>But tonight? Scott’s picking Derek. Tonight, Scott wants him more. And apparently, tonight’s important—Lord only knows why. It’s just another Friday night with nothing particularly special about it as far as Derek knows.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell me: we both matter, don't we? (see how deep the bullet lies.)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imitation_red](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imitation_red/gifts), [EnigmaticSplendor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnigmaticSplendor/gifts), [solvecoagula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/solvecoagula/gifts), [percyweatherby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/percyweatherby/gifts).



> **A/N1:** Looked over, but not beta-read. Any mistakes are mine. ♥
> 
>  **A/N 2:** As far as the underage here goes: Derek is 25, Scott is 17; they were having sex while Scott was 16 and Derek was unaware of this because Scott assumed that he knew and Derek didn't bother to ask because, "well, Scott kissed me first so it's okay and I don't need to ask these kinds of things" is good solid logic in Derek's mind.

Even though he’s trying to read, Derek keeps tuning in, checking the sounds outside his loft for something noteworthy, something he actually wants to hear.

Occasionally, he checks the clock on his phone, then puts it back into his pocket, then two minutes later, takes it out to check again. It’s getting late. Not late enough to worry that Scott might not be coming over tonight—that maybe something happened to him, something dangerous or something with the cute new girl he talks about or something with his bastard father or something infinitely more important coming up with Stiles—something that would keep Scott away from Derek’s apartment, whatever trouble has to knock hard on Scott’s door.

It’s not late enough to worry that Scott’s not coming after all, but it’s still going on nine-thirty and usually, Scott’s here by now.

So Derek listens in. Reclines into the armchair of the secondhand sofa he rescued from a Craig’s List ad when Isaac started grousing about how he hated sleeping on the floor. Derek runs his fingers along the weather-worn pages of Francesca Lia Block’s _Echo_ and lets himself pick out the different sounds. Rain snickers against the window, like the even needed more rain after the wettest January on record and a February that’s been more of the same. Engines rumble, different cars with different sets of tires scrape-sliding along the wet pavement. But none of them are the engine that Derek wants to hear and anyway, most of them stop by the building except for the red light at the intersection.

One time, there’s a delivery truck. It pulls up in the alley and there’s a quiet moment and the driver loudly asks his companion if this is the right place (it’s not and they move on). Another time, there’s a delivery guy on a bicycle with pungent, peanutty Pad Thai that gets Derek’s mouth watering when he picks out the scent. He thinks about calling in an order for himself and Scott, but Scott might take that the wrong way. He might take it as some romantic overture on Derek’s part, getting Scott his favorite takeout for dinner. He might see the gesture as a show of affection if not of love itself when they agreed at the outset that there wouldn’t be any feelings like that in their arrangement.

(And maybe he’d be right to think that but Derek can’t consider that possibility right now or ever. It might give him an occasion to start probing at the situation and reading too much into things on Scott’s end. Things like the way his heart-rate spikes, the same as Derek’s does, when he says they’re not in love. Things like the way he doesn’t seem to smile that much anymore without just forcing himself to do it, except for when he first comes through the door and grins, lights up until he looks half-manic, for a split second or maybe two before he yanks Derek down into a kiss. Things like the way he hisses _fuck me like an animal_ then lips so gently at Derek’s jaw and the way mewls as he nuzzles Derek’s shoulder mid-getting fucked into the mattress and the way he curls into Derek’s chest and side when he sleeps over.

Things that don’t mean anything, Derek reminds himself for what has to be the thirteenth time tonight alone, because he and Scott agreed that they don’t mean anything. It’s just this thing they’ve fallen into lately, just their pattern, just their extra time. Just a quiet gnashing of teeth, a nigh on silent thing they do and don’t ever share with anyone else. Because no one else has a need to know. It’s just their sound and their fury, signifying nothing because why should it—they don’t have to be in love to be sleeping together. Anyway, relationships are complicated. That’s practically the entire point of them. Why should he and Scott be any different from everybody else on this count?)

People rushing by thump their feet along the sidewalk and mostly skip over the tired conversations that he usually hears while he’s waiting for Scott. There’s no talk about great aunts with skin conditions or who’s bringing what to book club next week. Not while they’re all stumbling along, trying to get out of the rain as quickly as possible. Derek tunes back out after a moment, checks his phone again and tries to focus on his book, even though the paperback spine’s long since cracked with how many times he’s read it. Just because it might be nice to lose himself in something if he can’t lose himself in Scott the way he’d rather.

He probably ought to content himself with his book. Nine-forty-five comes without a trace of Scott. So does nine-fifty. It gets to be two past ten and Derek’s certain that Scott might not be coming tonight—which isn’t a big deal. He didn’t come on Friday last week either. He came on Wednesday and Saturday but Friday was the full moon and also Isaac’s birthday and it’s not like Derek _wanted_ to do anything for Valentine’s Day or whatever. Scott _definitely_ would’ve mistaken that for some romantic overture. Maybe he’s just not coming by tonight. Maybe he’s doing this on purpose, to remind Derek that they aren’t lovers, they only ever fuck.

But just when Derek’s about to declare tonight a bust and heat up last night’s leftovers and try to turn in early, his ears prick up at the sound of an engine that he recognizes, at the three staccato beeps that Scott always fires off when he’s getting close. Derek’s heart skips a beat and his throat tightens, hugging in around itself, but he doesn’t bother looking up from the book still resting open in his lap. Worn and yellowed page edges crinkle as Derek drags his fingertip down them, traces his eyes over the stark black lines of text without digesting any of the words. He doesn’t look up because there’s just no sense in doing that. It’s not supposed to mean anything, what they’re doing here and what they’ve done, and Scott wants to say that it means nothing so why not let him keep on lying to himself by pretending not to care.

Besides, they’ve done this twenty-six times before tonight and Derek knows full well what’s coming. No surprises. There never are—Scott values his routines too much to change up the process. Tonight’s no different from any of its predecessors, not really, so all the little movements are the same. All the pieces fit together distressingly well, falling into their comfortingly predictable rhythm, their semblance of what passes for normalcy in this town. They’re a symphony and Derek knows every motion in them by heart.

First, the rumble of a dirt-bike dying down outside, the click of keys in the ignition and the clack of the kickstand going down. Then comes the heavy sigh that’s too world-weary for the person letting it slip out—too old for him when he’s still in high school and isn’t even twenty yet, too downcast for someone who shouldn’t have to shoulder everything that Scott takes on. Too _tired_ for Derek’s comfort and really far too languid, all trembling like a natural vibrato or like Scott’s hands when he thinks that Derek isn’t looking. Too gut-deep drained and too bone-dead for Scott.

Well. More so than Derek would ever wish for him, at any rate. At this point, it’s more characteristic of Scott than Derek likes, with how many times that he’s heard that same wavering sigh and the huffs and whines that follow as Scott fidgets with his hair, combing his fingers through it harsh and hard (so much so that he keeps making himself wince). Trying to control his heartbeat, he takes deep and measured breaths, and they all come out in sighs that echo the first one. Trying to make it look like everything’s fine by the time he gets upstairs, he adjusts one of his rearview mirrors (it creaks as he tweaks it and Derek can picture the irritated rabbit face Scott’s making, wrinkling his nose down at his own reflection and wondering if he should fix his jacket’s collar or leaving it askew is better for the ruse that they insist on).

Next, the strings get tenser as there’s the click of a cap coming off a nearly empty tube of cinnamon sugar Lip Smackers and the almost imperceptible drag of teeth along chapped lips. Scott inhales sharply, holds his breath as he applies the stuff, and Derek holds his breath as well just imagining the perfect round _O_ of Scott’s lips. The way that his perfect mouth puckers as he rubs the lip balm on. It’s the same way that he stretches out his mouth before he takes on Derek’s cock; Derek knows this from watching Scott put his lip balm on before he leaves. Maybe Scott does that for Derek on purpose.

As the furtive, soft-sneakered footsteps pad up the stairs and down the corridor toward the loft, Derek picks out the telltale aroma of off-brand pomegranate body-wash midst the stink of gasoline lingering on crooked-fingered hands from filling up the tank, and the stuck-on scent of dog food and litter-boxes, the perpetual reek of those godawful watermelon Jolly Ranchers that Scott won’t stop sucking on. He says he really can’t explain why he needs to suck on things so much, just that doing it makes him feel better about everything and he honest to God does not know why. Derek says that he could at least pick something other than Jolly Ranchers that are too sweet to be allowed and don’t even taste like watermelon anything. Still, there’s the stink of them all over him, and Derek’s lining up all of his criticisms, all of his biting sarcasm about them—

 _“I haven't been this scared in a long time, and I'm so unprepared so here's your valentine. Bouquet of clumsy words, a simple melody. This world's and ugly place, but you're so beautiful to me”_ —but Blink 182 lyrics shock through the quiet and Derek startles. Flinches so hard that his legs jerk up to his chest and his hands slip off his book. He tries to catch it but it smacks the floor and his teeth dig into his lower lip. And worse than all of that, Scott stops dead in the hallway—sighs again and from the sound of things slumps back into the wall.

“Yeah, I _know_ what time of night it is, Stiles,” he says, and as Derek picks up the book, he can’t help rolling his eyes—even without knowing what they’re up to, Stiles just _has_ to try to ruin everything. “Dude, I’m sorry, I know it’s just… I didn’t mean to… I _know_ you and Allison put something awesome together but I’m not, and I can’t… I would’ve called ahead if I could’ve but I had to close up the clinic and there just wasn’t time.”

As the paperback slips onto an empty couch cushion, Derek turns to stare down the door. Grimaces at it like it owes him something. Scott’s voice is even, if exhausted and weirdly exasperated for talking to Stiles—Scott’s probably the only person in Beacon Hills who can talk to Stiles without wanting to beat his face in—but his heartbeat’s throbbing way too quickly and he’s scratching too hard at the back of his neck, Derek can hear Scott’s fingernails scraping through the fine hairs on the back of his neck… He’s _lying_ to Stiles.

"“Can you guys do something tomorrow? I’ll make it up to you if…”

Even without seeing him, Derek can picture Scott right now: slouching against the sparse gray concrete walls, jacket damp and hair dry (for the most part anyway), one hand’s fingers limply curled around his phone and the other’s wrapped up in his helmet’s strap. Staring at the floor with his head bowed in almost-reverence and his eyes dulled over, half-glassy, uncertain and shifting around and with that look they’ve had to them since the lunar eclipse three months ago. The barely conscious look. The look that comes in to everyone else from far away. The look like Scott’s lost in a world of ghosts, neither living nor dead and knowing nothing because he’s walked among the lowest of the dead or however he’d describe Deaton’s ice bath ritual if Scott ever actually talked about it.

The look that Derek pretends he doesn’t see in Scott—pretends that he can’t perfectly imagine as he digs his fingertips into the sofa’s back cushion and tries to swallow the lump welling up in his throat—because Derek knows that look too intimately. Because he’s seen it in the mirror every morning since Kate and since the fire. And it’s the last thing in the world that he would’ve ever wished for Scott.

“I _know_ what day it is, Stiles, but this is _important_ , okay? Just… please? I need you to just trust me that it’s important. Please trust me?” His helmet knocks into the floor as he sets it down, and he doesn’t try to stifle a groan as he tugs his hand back through his hair again. He’s probably quietly kicking himself for messing up all the work he put into making it look like he rolled out of bed that way and didn’t care enough to fix it.

“I know your thing’s important too…” he says, not entirely losing his patience, just whining in a way that’s probably just meant for Stiles and that Derek’s probably not meant to overhear. It’s too vulnerable and it comes up out of the back of Scott’s throat and he only ever lets _Derek_ hear anything like that when he’s too lost in the moment to think better of it, hands bunched up in Derek’s hair and face buried in Derek’s neck.

“Yeah, I _know_ that Isaac cooked, he told me he was going to… I’m not _saying_ that it’s not important, and just… Well, tell everyone I’m sorry, okay? …I _am_ sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen, I already told you it just came up. We can all do something for it tomorrow, but this is _really. important_. …No, it _can’t_ wait. …Well, it’s important to _me_ , Stiles. Weren’t you _just_ telling me yesterday to do something that’s important to me for once?”

Derek’s heart flutters against his ribcage and there’s no way that Scott doesn’t hear it. Maybe it doesn’t fully register for him—not while he’s on the phone—but Derek can hear his own pulse ringing in his ears and feel it skyrocketing and trembling down his arms and fingers. There’s no way that Scott doesn’t hear it too. And Derek should care. He should take a few deep breaths and steady himself and stop staring at the door like some gut-kicked puppy. He should make some token effort to clear up the lump in his throat. He should _care_ that Scott wants for all of this they do together to mean absolutely nothing even though Scott knows it does. But the only thing that brings Derek crashing back down to reality is—

“It’s pack business, okay?” And, really, hearing Scott work like this keeps Derek clenching his teeth to keep from going slack-jawed. “I already told you: I didn’t plan on this happening, it just came up. But it’s really important for the pack and that’s why it couldn’t wait.” Because it’s amazing, dropping eaves on how good at this Scott is, how the roll of his eyes is audible and how he can still sound so even, so unruffled—except for the way his heart’s still pounding. “Dude, I _didn’t_ go alone. Why would I go alone? …Stiles, we’ve been over this? The motel was just a _fluke_ …”

Just as he was letting his brow relax, Derek furrows it again. Once again, they end up here: someone has to go and say something about a motel, with the implication that something awful happened at it. Derek has no idea what it could’ve been. Something that makes Scott’s vocal cords tighten up and his voice get higher pitched. Something that makes Stiles stick his nose in where it isn’t wanted (more so than he usually does, at any rate) and something that makes him question Scott.

Because whatever they’re referencing, it worries Stiles enough for him to show it—so Derek can only drum his fingers on the sofa and squint in the direction of the door and assume that _something_ must’ve happened to Scott. Something awful that Scott doesn’t want to talk about in the first place, much less tell Derek about when this would probably be a sign that they both mean something to each other after all.

Not that anyone tells Derek anything unless they absolutely need to, but that’s beside the point.

“It _was_ just a fluke! It was all the wolfsbane and it didn’t really _mean_ anything and it’s been four months so _why_ are you _still_ harping on the freaking motel… I took Derek with me, okay? That’s not going alone. So I didn’t and you can stop saying that I have a freaking death wish… I _didn’t_ go alone. I took _Derek_ with me. That’s. not. going. alone… No, it’s _not_ ‘basically the same’ as going alone. You know, Derek’s better than you give him credit for. Yeah, he’s a screw up a lot of the time, but who here _hasn’t_ screwed up before, I know that I have… I _couldn’t_ take you with me tonight, Stiles, okay? Literally couldn’t. It had to be Derek.”

Scott’s still lying, but not as much as he was before. His heartbeat’s steadying, slowing down to a less worrisome pace. So there’s some truth amidst the bullshit that he’s throwing out there for Stiles’s benefit. And maybe, just maybe, the truth is that Scott wants to be here more than any other place tonight. Anyway, Derek can dream that that’s what Scott isn’t vocalizing in this moment. Maybe he’s even right about it on some level.

“Why did it _have_ to be Derek? Because it _did_ , Stiles. _…_ Because he heard from some old ally of his mom’s and she’d only meet with him and me so I _couldn’t_ take anybody else with us. Especially not any humans. Not even Emissaries. …No banshees, either. Apparently, she’s a little bit like, radical werewolf separatist or something. She doesn’t even _have_ an Emissary last Derek heard. I would’ve brought you or Lydia with me if I could’ve but since I really, _really_ couldn’t…”

Scott sighs and there’s a dull thud as he knocks his head against the wall. “Stiles, I’m sorry, just… I know this means a lot to you and I know we _always_ do stuff together every year but this came out of nowhere and it’s _really_ important and it _had_ to be tonight… I’ll make it up to you after I get back tomorrow, okay? Just put everything in the fridge and we’ll get together and after everyone else clears out, we can do whatever you want. But I _really_ need to do this tonight, okay? …Okay.”

Derek’s lips curl up into a smoke-twist smirk and he tongues along their chapped surface. He can’t help it. Or the way his chest lights up and swells at the realization— _Scott wants to be with him tonight_. More than that, Scott _needs_ to be with him tonight. More than he needs or wants to be with Stiles, and Scott _always_ wants and needs to be with Stiles. Without knowing it, they invented the phrase, “joined at the hip” for Scott and Stiles. They must have done because no one else who Derek’s ever met has lived and breathed those words as much as Scott McCall and Stiles Stilinski.

But tonight? Scott’s picking Derek. Tonight, Scott wants him more. And apparently, tonight’s important—Lord only knows why. It’s just another Friday night with nothing particularly special about it as far as Derek knows. But then again? It’s also Scott and Stiles. They’d probably invent holidays for the first time they had chocolate chip pancakes together and drag everyone else into the celebration, too. Have Isaac make the pancakes and Allison put the party together and Lydia supervise everything. And maybe Scott wouldn’t think that party necessary if he’d just try _Derek’s_ chocolate chip pancakes in the morning sometime, which he never does, no matter how many times Derek’s told him that he should eat something and it’s really no hassle for him to cook for Scott…

But Derek doesn’t need to know why tonight’s so important or why it matters so much that Scott’s blowing Stiles off like this. Because there’s a groan as Scott hangs up, and a soft little click as he switches his phone over to vibrate. The key that Derek got Scott after New Year’s clinks into the lock and twists inside the tumblers. The door creaks open and then slams shut and Derek stands as Scott does up the door chain as though anyone’s actually going to come to Derek’s place and bother them (as though anyone but Cora, Scott, and Peter ever come at all)…

He doesn’t get two steps from the couch before Scott’s on him instead, balling up his hands in Derek’s henley and taking a deep breath— _scenting_ Derek, because maybe he’s finally learning that it’s not a bad thing to just be what they are—combing his eyes up Derek’s chest and neck before finally making eye contact. That’s important, even if tonight isn’t. Scott never makes eye contact with people unless it’s some kind of important. He never holds himself together this well while making eye contact unless he can force himself to remain steady, and even now, his heartbeat’s picking up again. He’s rubbing Derek’s shirt between his fingers and his palms, smoothing his cinnamon sugar stinking red-tinted lips against each other. And there’s something _off_ about his eyes.

Maybe not _off_ , exactly. Maybe that’s going a couple steps too far or being too unkind. Because they’re still Scott’s eyes. But they don’t look half-dead the way they’ve done so often lately and there’s a spark behind them as Derek grabs onto Scott’s hips. As he jerks Scott flush into his personal space and lets slip a growl, trailing his nose up Scott’s cheek, bucking into Scott and pushing him back against Derek’s own hips. They don’t need words. Even if they didn’t feel it on this bone-deep level the way they do—even without the way their feelings resonate within each other, rub off on each other more than anything because they’re _pack_ and they tune themselves to each other without trying to make it happen—even if they didn’t recognize each other in the dark, lit only by the outside street-lamps and the waning moon, they wouldn’t need words.

Or Derek wouldn’t anyway. Words obscure things. Words dress things up to make them more presentable, more acceptable. Words disguise things like the quivering breaths that Scott lets slip along Derek’s skin and the way he gulps back a gasp as Derek digs his hand into Scott’s ass. Derek’s never needed words, not really. He has Scott and Scott’s full fucking beautiful mouth. He has Scott pulling him down with a mewl, all throaty and eager and barely there even before Scott muffles it in kissing Derek, in opening his mouth like he’s not sure what he wants—to devour Derek or let Derek devour him. Same difference, really.

Derek huffs and grinds down harder on Scott’s hips. Catches Scott’s lower lip between his teeth and bites it hard enough to make Scott wince. Sucks on it and all the air inside Scott’s lungs and the manufactured spicy twinge of Scott’s lip balm, the obnoxious chemical reek of those fucking Jolly Ranchers and the hint of hunger breath lurking underneath their aftertaste. Derek draws those tastes in with every breath of Scott, runs his tongue along the way they linger in Scott’s mouth. Even if they’re not his favorite things—even if they eclipse the wet, sloppy taste of natural mouth that Derek wants to take—he still seeks them out and tries to digest them. Because it’s all part of what it means for him to taste Scott in his entirety. And Derek never kisses Scott half-assedly. _Never_. He’d sooner die than leave Scott’s perfect mouth unsatisfied.

Scott’s so much the same as Derek, in that way—he dedicates himself to kissing, to this matter of course between them, no matter how many times he says it doesn’t matter. He rubs his lips on Derek’s mouth as though they belong to him (and really, Derek wouldn’t mind it if they did). He lets go of Derek’s shirt because it’s easier to pull Derek closer and hold him in place with one hand resting on the back of his neck and the other twined up and lost inside his hair. He only yanks back out of things with a whine and a gasp after a few moments, chest heaving and knuckles digging desperately into Derek’s spine—oh, right. Right, that’s right… Scott can’t help it that he needs to breathe more often than the rest of them. Lycanthropy can clear up diseases and chronic inflammations pretty well, and it’s increased Scott’s lung capacity, but that’s one area where the rest of the pack is better off than he is just because they never were asthmatic.

But even as Scott tries to catch his breath, he doesn’t pull back from Derek all that much, doesn’t try to wriggle out of Derek’s personal space. When Derek starts letting his hands wander, brushing them past Scott’s jacket and one of his red hoodies, snaking his fingertips under the hem of Scott’s t-shirt to drag them along Scott’s warm, soft skin and the stuck out nubs of Scott’s vertebrae, Scott only nods and huddles closer to him. Crowds in closer to Derek’s chest and cleaves to him so tightly that Derek can feel the phone in Scott’s kangaroo pocket pressing up against his stomach.

Scott lets his breath hitch in his throat instead of trying to play cool when Derek finds a spot of tension in his back and kneads it, and Derek could try not to smirk at getting that reaction from him. But that would mean lying about how much he likes it when Scott makes those breathy, needy little noises, which Derek’s pretty sure is outright stupid. There’s no one else around and this is just for them. There’s nothing in it for Derek to lie to Scott right now. Especially not about the noises that Scott makes and the way that he’s just beautiful—so beautiful—when he whimpers underneath Derek’s hands and fingertips. When he aches for more and chest still heaving, arches and curls further into Derek’s body.

Scott’s only just gotten his breathing back to something kind of normal when he steals a quick kiss and whispers, _come on—are we gonna do this sometime tonight or not?_

The grin that spills onto Derek’s face contorts his features—he can feel it digging into his cheeks and he can feel the spark of his eyes flashing bright blue. Snarling, he takes a deep breath of Scott and nods in understanding. Because that kissing’s just how they say _hello_ and they’re not going to waste time out here. The couch still isn’t clean enough for Scott to fuck on, even after Derek’s tidied it up thrice and tried to meet Scott’s standards, and if Scott wants to get on with this already, then Derek’s more than happy to oblige. He cops another feel of Scott’s ass—grips onto Scott so tightly that Scott gasps again—then drops his hands to Scott’s toned, leaned thighs and fumbles at them, trying to find the perfect place to hold him.

Maybe it’s just Derek’s imagination, but these jeans don’t fit Scott’s legs as closely as they used to. He has to grope around the denim to find Scott’s flesh and that’s not what either of them wants to deal with right now, right now as Scott’s rolling his hips up into Derek’s in those fucking long slow fevered dragging teasing grinding movements that he just has to be so fucking good at. Like he has any fucking right to that.

Once he’s found two good spots, Derek hoists Scott off his feet. It used to be that Scott would let some noise slip out when Derek did this to him, but now he just wraps his legs around Derek’s waist, coils his arms around Derek’s shoulders, presses into Derek’s chest and _trusts him_ as Derek stumbles down the hall, toward the bedroom—Scott trusts him enough to claim another kiss and ruffle Derek’s hair between his fingers when he used to spend every second of this telling Derek not to drop him.

It also used to be that Scott wasn’t quite so easy to manhandle. Not because he struggled and probably most likely not because Derek’s gotten stronger. He’d like it if that were true, but he doesn’t think it is. Scott’s hips felt sharper underneath his hands. His spine felt more pronounced. It’s steadily been getting easier to sweep him off his feet and carry him, even though Derek’s doing nothing differently for himself. And much like Scott’s jeans, this sweatshirt doesn’t fit him as well as it used to. There’s too much fabric all rubbing against Derek’s chest as they stagger through the doorway—too much red cotton fabric and not nearly enough Scott.

Not that it really makes a difference—it might mean something but that doesn’t matter now—Scott still hits the mattress all the same. He still writhes like he has no idea what he’s doing as he kicks off his sneakers and arches his back and hips up at Derek. Derek rips his own shirt off, flounders and fiddles with his suddenly too complicated belt and the button on his jeans, just for some excuse to make Scott wait for him. Scott kept him waiting twice tonight—first before he showed up at all and then again while he had to blow off Stiles—so Scott can wait down there for Derek to get some of these obstructions out of the way.

By the time Derek’s crouching on the mattress, creeping over to Scott’s side, Scott’s decided that he won’t wait for Derek to come pull him up to sitting. He’s clawed his own way up, started tearing out of the hoodie and the Han Solo t-shirt that he’s hiding underneath. It must belong to Stiles, even though it smells like Scott, and for that fact alone above all others, Derek hates it more than anything. It smells enough like Scott but he and Stiles share clothes so often that it can be hard to tell who belongs to what. But this shirt has to belong to Stiles because after sitting through all six _Star Wars_ movies back at Christmas, Scott didn’t get why Han Solo was his best friend’s favorite character. He went so far as to call Han Solo a total douche.

But here Scott is anyway. Sitting in Derek’s bed, in the middle of Derek’s perpetually messy sheets, on a night that’s supposed to be for them. Struggling with this ugly yellowish cotton shirt that has one of Harrison Ford’s old promotional stills screen-printed on the chest even though he hates Han Solo.

Derek grimaces. Growls. Hisses. Balls his hand up and digs his nails at his palm. He’s being unreasonable but his arms and shoulders tense up anyway. Maybe Scott didn’t mean to do this. Maybe it’s really just a t-shirt and not some kind of statement. _Maybe_ he just grabbed whatever shirt smelled cleanest while rushing out the door to school and he had this one because it’s not Stiles’s shirt alone so much as it’s just _their_ shirt because who even knows who it originally belongs to. But maybe he wore that specific shirt on purpose, just to remind Derek that this can’t be love between them, at least they’re not allowed to call it that. Maybe Scott picked out that shirt because he knew that he’d be blowing Stiles off tonight and he felt guilty for that and it made him feel slightly less so to do something to remind Derek that Scott does not belong to him.

Because that’s not something Scott would do, and as he watches Scott slipping with the fabric, Derek knows that full fucking well—but on the other hand, maybe Scott did it anyway. Maybe he knew that Derek would get the message and wouldn’t blame him for it because it’s _not something that Scott would do_.

Derek’s breath comes out in a low snarl. His stomach churns, his lungs clench up and his blood rages—all because of this stupid freaking t-shirt, which he dimly recognizes is probably the dumbest thing he’s ever done this week—and before Scott can even get the asinine thing halfway up his torso, Derek’s clawing at it for him. Keeping his literal claws away but only because Scott likes to put them toward other purposes. Yanking the shirt off and tossing it into a heap on the floor with Scott’s hoodie and his phone. As if on cue, the stupid thing buzzes with a text message—even being wrapped up in a sweatshirt can’t stifle that self-insistent vibrate setting—and Scott glances down at it, furrows his brow like he’s actually even thinking about checking it right now, with his cock already straining against his jeans and Derek’s doing similarly…

So Derek grabs him by that beautiful stupid misaligned jaw. He jerks Scott’s head around as gently as he possibly can while still getting the point across. Scott looks him in the eye, if only for a second—but it doesn’t matter that Scott drops his gaze away from Derek’s or that he tries to duck his chin. He doesn’t like making eye contact with people and Derek doesn’t need it right now anyway. All he needs is for Scott to listen as he hisses, _hey—are we gonna do this sometimes tonight or not, Scott? Or do you really want to be with Stiles right now after all? What about you doing something that’s important to **you**?_

Scott flicks his tongue out across his lips. He looks back up at Derek and holds his eyes and the feeling that emanates off him without words is pretty simple— _do we need to have **another** talk about you listening in on my freaking phone calls?_ Derek shrugs— _I don’t know, Scott, do we? Or maybe we should talk about how you don’t know how to use a goddamn inside voice half the time_ —and he watches Scott’s brow furrow, lips purse, eyes drop away again as though combing them over Derek’s stomach might give him some kind of answer. Not just to the question of whether or not they’re going to get on with this, but to something even bigger than the two of them in Derek’s bed. Some unspoken doubt that Scott doesn’t have words for in the first place.

Briefly, it occurs to Derek that, if Scott finds an answer, it might not be the one that Derek wants to hear. It might be one that involves Scott deciding that this isn’t what he really wants. Deciding that he really wants that new girl in his history class, or that he really wants Lydia since Isaac’s neck-deep in Allison’s thighs these days so that rules both of them completely unavailable, or that the truth’s been obvious all along and the person he loves the most, the one who’s always loved him best of all, is really Stiles and he always has been. Maybe his heartbeat’s only spiked from anxiety when he’s said that he doesn’t love Derek and that he could stop coming over here any time he wanted. Maybe he’s been telling the truth and whatever this is between them doesn’t mean anything in the grand scheme of Scott’s life and Derek’s really not important to him after all. Maybe tonight’s important because it’s going to be the last night that they have.

Maybe Derek was stupid for ever thinking that he’d mean something to Scott McCall—for not once stopping to consider that he is not unique. That so many other people feel the same way about Scott and he will never be hard up for someone who can love him. That he could have his choice of anyone in Beacon Hills if he wanted, not that he’s actively aware of this, although he might be. That Derek is really just a single interesting lamp in the room that is Scott’s life—he has a purpose and a reason to be there but he’s not the central focus of anything and in all likelihood, Scott doesn’t actively consider him at all outside their nights together.

Searching Scott’s face doesn’t give Derek any clarification. It’s a map that Derek’s memorized before, long before, and it’s folded up into pursed-lipped frustration. Derek swallows hard and tries to keep his own face resolute—brow knotted up and eyes alight, or at least he hopes they are. Scott’s eyes darken and he rolls out his shoulders. He huffs and jerks his jaw out of Derek’s grip. Trying not to quiver, Derek stays in place, even as Scott’s breaths get heavier and he stretches out his mouth and jaw like he’s getting ready to shift and let his fangs out. The worst part is that Derek might even deserve that from him. He might deserve for Scott to shift and shove him off the bed and tell him that it’s over. Derek doesn’t really think he does but he’s willing to entertain the possibility, at least—

But then Scott lunges into him and once more, it’s mouth against mouth against mouth, all fingers tangling in Derek’s hair and tugging, all teeth gnashing into each other and Scott biting Derek, Derek biting Scott, them biting at each other simultaneously as Scott drags Derek down by the scruff of his neck. Positioning himself underneath of Derek and once they’re horizontal, holding Derek hard in place with one hand grasping at the curve of Derek’s ass. Derek winces, gasps—claws slip out for half a second and dig at him hard through the denim—then they have to go and retract before Derek can really enjoy the way they feel. He pouts at Scott and gets a pointedly arched eyebrow in return.

“You’re really freaking ugly when you get jealous,” Scott tells him, gently fingering the fine hairs on the back of Derek’s neck. Combing over them in caresses instead of tugging hard like Scott usually does with any of Derek’s hair. “If I didn’t want to be here right now, I wouldn’t be here right now. End of story.”

Derek should have something slightly smart to say to that. Some off the cuff remark to show he knows that they’re not serious about this or romantical in the least and that they don’t have to be—but Scott gropes his ass again and there’s nothing else to say. Scott arches up and grinds into Derek’s hips, coaxes Derek by the ass and makes him move his hips in the same fluid motion that Scott has going for him. They fumble over their cocks—they’ve done this enough times, they shouldn’t have to go through the beginner-level motions, but still they press too hard into each other first. It takes them a second and a third try to find the right position, to get Derek’s cock next to Scott’s and rubbing against it but not down onto it.

Scott groans and sucks his stomach in, even though it’s already all hard spare angles. He bites on his lower lip as Derek moves with him again, as Derek yanks at his belt, the waistband of Scott’s jeans. There isn’t all that much need for yanking, really. They’re loose around his middle and they give way to Derek’s hands without a fuss. It’s just the boxer-briefs that give Derek any pause and even they get out of the way pretty quickly, getting bunched up around Scott’s ankles. For his part, Scott’s slower and more attentive to the process of getting rid of Derek’s jeans—like a tease par excellence, he kneads the muscle of Derek’s hips and sides as he slides his hands down and takes Derek’s jeans down with them, then repeats the process with Derek’s underwear. It makes Derek’s stomach turn, makes him grind down on Scott insistently because come _on_ , Scott, this isn’t _fair_. Why does Scott have to take his time like this and why can’t they just get to it already. It’s not like he can get Derek any more worked up.

Even the extra time to trace his eyes up and down Scott’s body isn’t helping. Even in the dark, Scott’s brown skin is soft and perfect and waiting to get on with this is driving Derek crazy. He fumbles the lube and the condoms out of the bedside table drawer, starts slicking up his fingers, rubbing them around to warm it up, working them at Scott’s hole, just so they won’t have to waste any more time. Scott chokes back a gasp and wrinkles his nose—he snickers and huffs up at Derek and his hands slow to a truly glacial pace. He smirks like he’s daring Derek to freaking _make him_ get this over with already, and Derek works two fingers into him at once. Cocks his own eyebrows down at Scott when he slips out an _oh! Jesus Christ, Derek, are you freaking **serious**_ , and tries to slip back into faking like he’s all calm cool and collected.

He wants to keep it together as Derek kneads inside him, as Derek spreads his fingers and presses them against Scott as he tries to work him open, twists them around and then in deeper, teasing at his prostate but never really rubbing it. Scott wants to keep it together—and bless his heart, he’s doing it so well—but he also wants to lose himself. With Derek’s boxers rolled up halfway down his rips, Scott jerks his hands away, curls his arms up to his chest. He flexes his fingers and his claws come out—Derek furrows his brow because this has happened before, just not in ways that made Scott really stop. But that doesn’t keep him from kneading inside of Scott another time, or from grinning when Scott whimpers and his fangs start creeping out in place of his perfect teeth.

Growling for real this time, Scott drags his claws along the sheets, leaves a new set of tears in the fabric right next to the ones that Derek made in it the last time that Scott came over. There are no illusions in this growl, or the series of panting hisses that follow it as Scott bucks his hips up into Derek. Scott’s tearing down the walls and leaving just himself, just the noises that he never lets himself make when he’s thinking about it. All animalistic and rattling Derek down to his bones, stirring an impulse to bow his head and bare his neck and nuzzle at Scott’s thigh. _Please my Alpha, I need to please my Alpha_ beats deep in Derek’s chest, perfectly in time with his heart. It’s the only thing that Derek needs to know and Scott is the only Alpha who’d never take advantage of it.

Scott’s lightning-quick about the rest of it, all a mess of the need that’s reeking off of him. He just gives up on undressing Derek slowly and rips his underwear right off of him. Derek kicks off his jeans, slicks up his cock without being told to do it. Even before Scott’s eyes flare red and he whimpers, _come on already—do it_. Derek has to be ready for him, and he is, and he winces as Scott’s claws drag around the curve of his shoulder-blade and the blood wells up in the marks Scott leaves behind. But nothing short of the kitchen catching fire could keep Derek from spreading Scott’s legs open, from bearing down and grinding one last time before he presses into him.

Scott gasps. Whimpers. Hisses. Digs his claws harder into Derek’s muscle, and Derek chokes back his own noises. Scott might be warm and tight around him, Scott might know how to shift himself so that Derek can enjoy this too, like he’s trying to get away from getting off himself—but that’s not the point. The point is Scott. The point is making Scott feel this, feel all of it, and making him let himself feel it. Derek knows that he’s really getting this right when Scott’s stomach tenses up. When he quivers underneath of Derek and one slow, deep thrust makes that give way to full on trembling. Scott never just lies back and lets Derek do all the work—he moves his hips with Derek’s and tries to tease him back even as he curls up into Derek’s chest, buries his face in Derek’s neck, all mewling, heavy breaths and the stray whispers of, _Derek… Derek, please… Slower, no, wait, deeper… ay, Jesus, Derek, that’s so good but deeper… Derek, **please**_ —

But again, the point’s not making Scott work for it. He’s more than worked for this. He more than works for it every fucking day. The point isn’t making Scott earn a goddamn thing and it’s not about Derek’s racing heartbeat or how deeply he breathes Scott in or how far into Scott he thrusts or the satisfaction of knowing that Scott would rather be with him than anyone else right now. The point is Scott—it’s always been Scott.

The point is twisting and moving his hips just so he can hit Scott’s favorite spot and make him groan. The point is making Scott writhe underneath of Derek (and he does), and making Scott’s fangs and claws retract because contact like this will also keep you human. The point is Derek’s hand grasping at Scott’s cock and working up and down the shaft, squeezing here, kneading hard into the underside and kneading harder when Scott whines against Derek’s skin. The point is making Scott cling to Derek tighter and harder and faster as he lips at the curve of Derek’s neck and the point is the tangled, tense, panting breaths he stops being able to control.

The point of all of this is the way that, finally unrestrained, Scott digs and burrows into Derek’s shoulder and groans from deep down in his stomach as he comes.

Derek’s grunting and done not long after. They haven’t figured out coming together yet, they’re not that synchronized, but Scott’s cheeks are flushed and he’s still trying to catch his breath, so it really doesn’t matter. Derek huffs and rolls off of him, and when Scott wobbles over onto his side, Derek’s right there with him, draping an arm around Scott’s waist and pressing up into his back. Trailing light, gentle kisses up Scott’s spine, his back, his neck and shoulders. It’s quiet, and they’re not pretending, and Derek can do this kind of thing right now because Scott’s fucked out enough to just admit he likes it—

And then his _fucking_ phone has to go and _fucking buzz_ again. Derek snarls at it, and snaps, “Why the Hell does it keep doing that.” He nips at Scott’s neck by way of saying that he’s not mad at Scott.

“It’s a _phone_ , Derek.” Scott sighs and the roll in his eyes is audible but he presses back into Derek’s chest anyway. “Phones _do that_ when people send you messages and stuff.”

“You already told them your excuse. Why the Hell can’t they just leave you alone until morning.” It might not even be Isaac’s or Lydia’s or Allison’s or Ms. McCall’s fault, if they’re the ones responsible for this. And Derek will beat Stiles’s freaking face in for this if he didn’t pass along Scott’s lie.

“Yeah, well…” Scott shrugs and wriggles against Derek, rolls over onto his other side and snakes his arms up around Derek’s shoulders. “I guess skipping your own birthday party gets people all concerned or something.”

“Your _what_?” Derek stops on his way to palming Scott’s ass and rests his hand on the small of Scott’s back. “It’s your birthday? You’re, what, eighteen now, right?”

Scott wrinkles his nose, and he lips at Derek’s jaw and stubble, and what he has to say drops a ton of ice into the pit of Derek’s stomach: “Seventeen. Seventeen and totally not freaking interested in whatever homemade buttercream frosting bullshit Isaac learned to make off of Food Network, or opening presents, or… Whatever. Any of it.”

He sighs and nuzzles closer to Derek like that should be the end of it—and who knows, maybe it should be. But Derek’s mouth has other ideas and as he rubs Scott’s back, he can’t help asking, “Wait, why wouldn’t you want to go to your own birthday party? You live for all that family crap.”

Scott huffs. He laughs but it’s not a pleasant sound. It’s like breaking glass and so far off from Scott’s usual laughs. “Yeah, but it’s just a party to say, ‘good job, you didn’t kill yourself this year.’ Who really wants to get reminded of that? Anyway, if they made me eat the freaking birthday cake, I might have to totally revise my stance on how I’m not going to go through with anything with road flares or wolfsbane bullets…”

He pulls out of Derek’s shoulder, smiles up at him and Derek’s not sure if it’s broken or beatific. “You don’t smother me or ask any questions I can’t answer,” Scott says. “That’s what I like… I mean, there are other reasons, but… But that’s the one I appreciate the most tonight, so there.”

His kiss is gentle. Practically saintly. And with a sigh, Scott curls into Derek all over again, nodding off like he didn’t just say that. Like it doesn’t mean anything that he admitted something like that to Derek. Like Derek doesn’t wrap tighter around him once he’s down and wake up at least twice tonight, just to make sure that Scott’s still there and breathing. Just to make sure that he hasn’t made good on what he’s been considering since who knows when.

And Derek’s heartbeat tells him one thing and one thing only, over and over and over again: he’s part of the problem, and he can’t keep letting Scott do this to himself.

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/N3:** Not beta-read properly because it was written on a time limit for Stop Drop Howl and the prompt, "happy birthday." The title comes from Kate Bush's "Running Up That Hill" because the Placebo cover of said song is my go-to Scerek feels song.
> 
>  **A/N4:** The universe alterations that I made are these: Jennifer killed Deucalion after he mortally wounded her but before she went down, and as per canon, Peter killed her at the Nemeton and had some big speech about how he's always been the Alpha; Deaton wasn't at Derek's loft in time to save Ethan and Aiden, who are also dead; Marin Morrell is definitely still alive; Derek and Cora didn't leave town after the end of 3a; and the events of 3a and 3b are spaced out a bit, with Motel California happening around mid-October, Currents happening on October 18th, the events of The Girl Who Knew Too Much and The Overlooked happening on November 13th and 14th, Alpha Pact taking place mostly on the 15th and the sacrifices taking place on the 16th, Lunar Ellipse happening on November 17th, and the events of 3b so far (up to Illuminated) assumed to be mostly happening but also being spaced out so that the current date in fic is February 21st.
> 
>  **A/N4b:** Technically, the placement of Scott's birthday probably also constitutes a universe alteration because of some apocryphal deuterocanonical thing or other that I'm not aware of, but meh, Scott's a Pisces now.
> 
>  **A/N5:** …god, how much do I hate that this is a 'verse now because I didn't entirely have time to write the ending scene that I'd imagined. …well. not as much as I wish I hated it. but it's still kind of low-grade frustrating.
> 
>  **A/N6:** and it's all gifted to Red, Kiki, Percy, and Zani because they're a pack of life-ruiners and enablers and they're really great and I love them to bits. ♥


End file.
